The World of DevNullA
by Mikel Midnight
Summary: Captain Babylon and several other members of the trans-dimensional Corps investigate the death of one of their own, and find themselves trapped in a reality level completely dominated by the villainous Arcade. This story was co-written by John Freeman.


Deep shift. The place/nonplace between parallels, where mad things roam and the best form of travel is the fastest, before they catch you. And there is nothing faster than a shiftship, especially a shiftship on a mission for the Corps. On board, Captain Babylon looked up from his copy of _Caribbean Today_ at a holographic image of Roma, coordinator of the Corps ... and the woman who had sent them on their urgent mission.

"There's been no word from Captain Commissar?" the powerful Jamaican asked, frowning at telemetry coming from the parallel Earth ahead of them. The signals were odder than listening to some of his alter ego Arthur Moldsley's classical music collection.

Roma shook her head, "No. We fear he may be a fatality of some as yet unknown tragedy. We are considering a replacement, but thought it wise to assemble a team to investigate before then. All other communicants from Earth 4191 have been silenced."

Captain Ethnic Stereotype bowed deeply to Roma's image, "Ah, most radiant guardian of the multiverse," he said, rubbing his hands together. "You have done your humble servant the greatest honor by altering reality so my death from pneumonia was erased from my timeline. We will do our best to ensure that Captain Commissar will be rescued, or that, if found horribly mutilated and ripped to shreds by unknown forces, his persecutors will be brought to the most severe justice."

Captain Babylon nodded in agreement. "It's good to have you back, old friend," he murmured, then turned his attention to Captain Politically Aware, whose helmet, resembling nothing more than a cathode ray tube, had been wired directly into the shiftship's navigational computer. Politically Aware's 'screen' flashed colours like an aurora borealis, each radiant line neatly labeled with its individual Earth designation.

Meanwhile, away from the controls, Captain Marvelman stared glumly out of a view port, clearly preoccupied. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

"You're looking glum, bub," Weapon X muttered, his accent betraying the greater influence Canada bore in his world's version of the Commonwealth.

Captain Marvelman nodded. "I was loath to leave my Earth," he explained. "Excalibur Force and I had been on a mission in deep space ... we came back to find my brother Jamie had returned and used his reality-warping powers to devastate London.

"We defeated him," he sighed, "but at great cost." His aura sparkled. "On my return, I plan to write an interpretive dance on the subject."

As the shiftship approached Earth 4191, Weapon X lit a cigar, "Wish I could help, bub. I'm the best I am at what I do, but what I do isn't poncy ballet."

Captain Sycophant, who had been eavesdropping, walked over to Weapon X. "I've always admired your work," he said in an ingratiating voice.

Weapon X just shook his head, "You always say that."

"And your interpretation of the Nutcracker Suite was simply perfection," he told Captain Marvelman.

"You always say that, too," muttered the depressed hero. "In fact, is there anything you don't like?"

Captain Sycophant thought about this for a moment then looked out the portal. "Well," he ventured, "I don't think the body of Captain Commissar on that metal sickle orbiting the Moon is very nice."

As one, the Captains looked from the view port on a scene of utter carnage, mutilation and ripped shreds. "Can we go home now?" squeaked Captain Ethnic Stereotype. "I'm not very good in potential conflict scenarios."

From the deck of the gleaming, four-angled shiftship, the sextet looked down, appalled, as below the giant sickle that had impaled their good friend Captain Commissar. "Ironic," Captain Politically Aware observed. "Killed by a symbol of the revolution that gave him his powers in the first place…"

But there was no time to contemplate the socio-economic implications of misused political imagery. Captain Bad Costume gasped, his red clown nose lighting up, as the shiftship now rounded the moon and the surface of Earth 4191 came into view. "Are we in the right place?"

The surface of the planet had been covered by a gleaming network of metal and flashing lights, in the center of which was an immense red 'A' in an ornate font.

Captain Marvelman raised an eyebrow. "I see someone has redecorated since our last visit," he said sourly.

"The planetary albedo must be enormous," said Captain Politically Aware. "Global warming out of control."

Weapon X lit another cigar. "It looks like Captain Commissar and ... what was his team? The People's Superheroes? couldn't stop things getting a little out of hand."

"I wish Comrade Bolshevik were here," said Captain Sycophant. "He'd know his way around this locale."

Captain Bad Costume shook his head. "You always say that," he snapped. "Boris Melgunov? That dunderhead? Really, Sycophant, try to get a grip."

Captain Babylon made a 'time out' signal with his hands and peered over Captain Politically Aware's shoulder as the latter initiated landing procedures. "Where're we headed, man?"

"The greatest energy signature seems to be located in this spot." Captain Politically Aware pointed to an area in what some Earths is known as Beverly Hills, California. "If we're going to find anything out, it's going to be there."

The ship descended to the remains of Captain Commissar's Earth, and the team disembarked to witness a landscape which resembled nothing more than a gleaming, metal, funhouse, stretching into all directions as far as the eye could see.

Captain Ethnic Stereotype looked over to Captain Babylon, "We've known each other for many years, my esteemed friend, but what sort of mind could have created a madhouse such as this one?"

"You got me, man," said Captain Babylon. He turned to his team, "We had better stick together for now, until we can find out who caused this insanity."

Weapon X drew forth his twinned blades from their holsters. "Why don't we start with that," he indicated, as they all turned to see a garbage truck driving over the horizon. Then, a robotic driver peeked his head out as it drives right next to them. "Morning all," he waved cheerily, "Lovely day, eh? For murder!"

Before the Corpsmen could even think to act, the top of the truck opens and an extendable tube slammed over the sextet with a chilling SHFLANG...

Later. Much later...

Groggily, the Corpsmen woke up inside a series of translucent plastic spheres, assembled in a line in a long metal tube. As one, they pounded on their individual spheroid prisons but escape seemed impossible. "Nerve gas," Captain Marvelman opined, "preventing all of us from accessing our powers."

From a public address system came an announcement, "Ladeez, gentlemen and children of all ages. Welcome you to Murderworld - where nobody ever survives!"

"_Arcade!_" gasped Captain Babylon. "That mutha has taken over this entire planet!"

"Not just the planet," cackled the diminutive assassin as he appeared on a giant view screen. "The entire reality. And this miserable parallel is just the start!"

As one, the Corpsmen rallied. "WE ARE THE CORPS, AND FOR MERLYN AND AVALON, WE WILL OPPOSE YOU!"

Arcade simply laughed even louder. "Not if you're dead," he replied. "And that won't be long coming for some of you sad sacks!"

Captain Babylon whispered down the line. "Captain Ethnic Stereotype -- can you do anything here?"

"Of course effendi," replied the other, "I think I have recovered enough that my Mystic Passport will allow me to pass through this sphere with ease." But before he could act, the giant-size hammer of the mechanical pinball machine was drawn back, and then shot him and the other helpless Captains up the launching track and onto the face of a giant pinball board. One by one, the balls careened across the board, electrical charges sent through their bodies as their balls struck the bumpers, and finally rolled helplessly towards the machine's separate dead ball slots, each leading to a custom-designed room.

As Captain Babylon entered Arcade's challenge for him - a large area that transformed itself into a seaside pier musical hall, complete with wooden floor and the subtle sound of waves crashing against Victorian iron supports below -- several figures emerged from its darkest corners, grinning manically, all them clutching ukuleles.

As Babylon's eyes adjusted to the darkness, he recognised them as George Formby androids -- and each one knew how to play the terrifying instruments. One started strumming methodically, deliberately, every twang of the instrument cutting deep into Captain Babylon's reggae-powered heart.

Twang.  
Twang.  
Twang.

_"I'm leaning on a lamp post  
At the corner of the street... "_

Twang. Twang. Twang. Slowly, then faster, the other androids picked up the innocuous, soulless beat of George Formby's most memorable and most feared tune, and Captain Babylon screamed as the affront on good music grew in volume...

Twang.  
Twang.  
Twang.

Captain Babylon fell to the floor, screaming at the sheer horror of the witless song. He tried to cover his ears but the ukuleles were relentless now. Arcade was a real fiend, exploiting Captain Babylon's weakness - a pathological fear of northern British music! How would he get out of this?

Twang.  
Twang.  
Twang.

Suddenly, escape seemed impossible. Depression and madness coursed through his assaulted mind. If only Arcade had tried Abba or the BeeGees - anything but this!

Twang.  
Twang.  
Twang.

Captain Babylon tried to concentrate. But it was impossible. Closer. Closer came the androids. The song was almost over.

Twang.  
Twang.  
Twang.

The androids paused. By now, Captain Babylon was a gibbering wreck, begging them to stop. But the Formby androids just grinned. "Still alive?" they grinned as one. "Time for another song then. How would you like to hear 'When I'm Cleaning Windows?'"

Elsewhere ... Weapon X found himself onstage in a Victorian-era theatre, but one that appeared to have been decorated by a beast from the pit. The seats and curtains were deepest red, tableaux displaying horrific tortures decorated the walls, and the scent of sulfur and brimstone were omnipresent. The stage itself was decorated in the fashion of an exterior scene in a turn of the century London street.

Scowling, the grizzled hero reached for a cigar ... only to have it snipped from his hand by a small, dapper robot in an ushers' uniform. "All smoking has been banned from this world," said the usher. "Please comply with regulations." Scissors reached out and severed the packet containing Weapon X's nicotine stash from his utility belt, disappearing behind the eaves before the Corpsman could react.

He drew forth his blades again, rolling onto the balls of his feet, enhanced eyes and ears attuning themselves to his surroundings. He knew his near perfect regeneration skills had one weakness ... they were powered by nicotine, the result of a very misspent youth on a planet where government health warnings had never been invented! Arcade's cunning plan had thus rendered him defenseless and weak even before the battle commenced.

Suddenly, music blasted through the theatre, nearly deafening him. He barely recognised the piece ... something by Stephen Sondheim? ... when an immense and rotund robot appeared before him. It was fashioned entirely in purple, save for its black waistcoat.

As it pulled forth a pair of straight razors, Weapon X realised he ought to have remembered the significance of the street sign which comprised part of the set design: Fleet Street.

The two began a fierce battle, blade to blade, the Sweeney Todd-bot surprisingly fast for his size. Neither made headway, but eventually Weapon X's nicotine withdrawal began to tell, and he found himself on the defensive. Backed into the set piece for the demon barber's shoppe, the robot suddenly leapt over the service chair, steel cords whipped out and bound his hands, wrist, and throat, securing him tightly to the chair.

The Sweeney Todd-bot began sharpening its blades on a razor strap, and with deft touches, began to slice off Weapon X's uniform and, once naked, his head hair, beard stubble, even down to his chest and body hair.

As it sharpened his blades again, Weapon X struggled to escape. He howled in feral agony as the robot continued, millimetre by millimetre, shaving him into tiny pieces, the gruesome death, pain and torture rendered all the worse as his failing regeneration skills attempted to heal him.

Fortunately, the blood did not stain the crimson velvet of the set.

Elsewhere ... Captain Marvelman looked around, and paled. He was back in London ... his own London, rendered distorted and grotesque by his brother's reality manipulating powers. Warily, he sought out the rest of Excalibur Force: his sister Captain Marvelwoman, the telepath from the future Arizona, even those cold alien representatives from the Order of the Black Sun, but the land was depopulated.

"Have I failed?" he said to himself, "was my summons to the Corps all a dream?" He floated to the ground, and began a graceful pirouette. As he performed a mid-air arabesque, he felt a powerful grip take him from behind. He was pulled into the air, and before he could react, hurled downwards.

He crashed to the ground, and looked up in shock. There stood an unliving figure, its skin white and angular. It wore a uniform resembling his own, but darker in shade, and the 'MM' logo on the front stood in mirror image. "What ... what are you?" Captain Marvelman enquired.

The twisted deviant grabbed him by the lapels and picked him up. "Me am McFarlane Man," it said in a coarse voice. "Me not own you. Me not own every comics character ever invented!" With a powerful strike, McFarlane Man headbutted his opponent, sending him down again.

"That ... hurt," Captain Marvelman said, wiping away a trail of blood off his face. His gold aura began to spark and crackle. "All of a sudden I don't give a damn if I'm crazy or dreaming, just like I don't care what this doppelganger's doing here ... nobody does that to me, nobody! I'm Captain Marvelman!"

He rose into the air in an arabesque, and then soared towards his opponent.

McFarlane Man's own aura sparked black as the pair clashed, powerful fists sending shockwaves through the air. Finally, Captain Marvelman's gamin-like grace put paid to the vile creature.

"Whatever you are, you haven't done your homework on my costume. That was your first mistake ... your second was messing around with the real thing," he said. "Now, take me to Arcade."

McFarlane Man looked up. "Me fight alone," it said, as Captain Marvelman noticed a quintet of doors opening from business offices along the half-destroyed city. From them came a series of robot lawyers, each carrying briefcases. "Me not have law on my side," said the creature.

As the lawyers surrounded Captain Marvelman, they opened up their briefcases to reveal a series of subpoenas. "Irish? Anglo-Saxon?" asked one. "An eclipse of quality," judged two others in unison. One by one they sliced him to pieces with razor sharp, snake like tongues as he tried to defend his very existence faced by a barrage of copyright infringement allegations. "Marvels and decease," summarised the last pair, over his torn and broken corpse.

Elsewhere ... Captain Bad Costume found himself on the ground floor of a facsimile of Macy's department store. The scent of perfume nearly overwhelmed him, and he flew to the escalators, soaring to the upper floors. The dizzying smell was still strong there, but with multiple floors between him and the perfume department, it was almost bearable.

A former polytechnic fashion student before his sense of style destroyed by exposure to 1980s pop, he found himself in familiar surroundings. He wandered through the stalls curiously, eyeing the men's shirts section and scowling at the lack of interesting color options.

Finally, he made his way to the women's' shoes and found himself drawn to a pair of black, knee-length, women's boots. He picked them up carefully, wondering whether they would be to the taste of his world's Levitation Lass, when he heard a sound behind him.

He whirled around to witness a set of robots exiting the changing rooms. They were sculpted into the forms of beautiful women, seven foot tall in their stiletto heels, and dressed in the most elegant clothes that Captain Bad Costume has ever seen.

One of them ... he instinctively thought of her as the leader ... pointed a long, pointed fingernail directly at him. "Who dares enter our lair with the effrontery to wear the color combination of orange and green?"

Captain Bad Costume found himself unable to turn his eyes away from their beauty. "I am from the Corps, we are here to investigate the death of our representative Captain Commissar and the destruction of your world."

"Fashion Police, expel him!" dictated the leader, and the robots descended upon him. Using his kickass clown shoes, he dropped the first one at twenty meters, but eventually numbers told. Cornering him against a rack of men's' ties, they ripped him to pieces with their razor sharp nails.

Elsewhere ... Captain Politically Aware found himself on the planet's surface. He rose into the skies, and his heart ached as he saw all natural beauty and ethnic diversity gone, plowed under by the brilliant sheen of gleaming, silver metal.

Finally, he came upon an area which seemed relatively untouched. He descended into what appeared to be several city blocks. They were depopulated, and the air was as stale and antiseptic as the rest of the environment. He walked through them, and found a small office front which tugged at his heart ... the headquarters for the local Green Party.

He pushed open the door ... no cobwebs, not even any dust. Before him was, freshly made, what appeared to be a small salad bar. He picked up a lettuce leaf and it sounded crisp between his fingers. Compulsively, he dipped it into a nearby carafe of salad dressing, opening up his helmet visor to take an experimental bite.

Suddenly, he felt a wave of nausea fall over him. The dressing had been made with radioactively sterilised herbs, particularly parsley ... his secret weakness. He stumbled, clutching at a nearby display case to attempt to right himself.

The display case collapsed atop him, burying him under a suffocating mountain of warning leaflets about the perils of global warming. From within the Corpsman, Ghaltaur, High Demon of Anzragar, formerly bonded to the humble and dull lawyer Harvey Denbold by the sorcerer Merlin, escaped into a nearby organic fig and raged silently.

Elsewhere ... Captain Sycophant entered what appeared to be a bustling downtown area. He recognised it immediately as the London borough of Croydon. What was he doing here? He remembered the song, _"Lissen 'ere! This am de place! This is not North Croydon as you know it! This am BABYLON!" _

Confused, he wandered amongst the passers-by, mingling amidst the busy city nightlife. Suddenly, from behind him he heard a voice, "Captain!" and a pair of beautiful women, blonde and brunette, took him by each elbow. "Pardon?" he said, confused. "Come on, Captain," the brunette said as they hustled him down the street, "Summer and Linda will take care of you."

Finally they arrived at Mandela Street, the night club Green Reefer, with a 'Grand Opening' sign at its front. "We couldn't let our master of ceremonies miss his opening night! We finally rebuilt this old dive since that fire took it down, and you promised you'd be here, remember?"

"Um," he started, but he was soon surrounded by a bevy of women, each more exquisite than the last, "Captain!" they swooned. As a group, they pull him backstage. On its way there he sees a flyer, advertising the night club opening by Captain Babylon.

"I think there's been some mistake," he said, bringing the crowd to a halt. "I'm not Captain Babylon at all ... I'm Captain Sycophant, from Earth 1212."

As one, the women around him froze, and then slowly, as a group, turned to look at him. "Um," he said, "just a misunderstanding?"

"That explains a lot," said one.

"Captain Babylon doesn't have a pot belly."

One peeled off his helmet against his futile resistance. "Or the receding hairline."

"Or that bad breath, like rotting oranges."

The humiliation and embarrassment were just too much as the ladies leveled criticism after criticism at him and he shriveled into nothing under a welter of verbal abuse. The chord of life revealed the final spark. It took him nowhere, and nowhere took him back again.

Elsewhere ... Captain Ethnic Stereotype found himself in an immigration office. The sense of despair overwhelmed him so, that he could not even summon his ability to pass through walls. He took a seat and waited to be seen.

The muzack was oppressive and depressing. He thought he recognised the theme song to the American telly series M.A.S.H. A grating voice came from a nearby speaker, "Please fill out a 3-THN-1C 5T3-R30 type form and submit it with supporting documentation."

He walked over to the bulletproof glass which revealed an empty cubical behind it. "So sorry, I don't have any documentation." He reached for the pile of forms before him, and as his hand ran along its edge, he felt a twinge of pain from a paper cut.

He pulled it back, surprised. As he sucked on the welling blood, he read unhappily the notice stating that the right to see a doctor had been stripped from all immigrants by order of the Home Office. "It was the same poster on my native Earth 8903," he thought to himself. "Word for word."

With an appalling flutter of motion, the immigration application forms which filled the room came to life and began to cut into his body. He fought against them, but the pain prevented him from summoning his full power, and soon he was sliced to pieces.

"I thought being a zombie would be a new lease of life," he thought in his last words.

Elsewhere ... Arcade sighed in satisfaction, and stretched out in his seat. Since he had assassinated the last other person on his planet, he had been so bored. These Corpsmen, so like his own Captain Commissar in their manner, had provided much entertainment. He'd have to watch these tapes again.

He felt a sudden pang of hunger strike him, and he wandered out in search of a can of potrzebie. As he walked through the wall of monitor screens, his eyes fell on an unexpected movement.

"Time for another song then. How would you like to hear 'When I'm Cleaning Windows?'"

But the moment's pause, and the sheer horror of another Formby number combined was enough for Captain Babylon to call on his last reserves of strength. With a roar of anger, he plunged his hands into the wooden floor, and pulled, ripping it up, sending the hapless androids scattering across the music hall, their instruments flying in all directions.

"I'll give you muthas lamp posts!" Captain Babylon stormed, hitting the androids again and again with wooden paneling. "I'll give you a clean window..."

From his control room, Arcade shuddered. What would stop this Captain from reaching him? What?

He swiveled a dial, turning up the audio barrage in Captain Babylon's area. The Corpsman began to chant, "WE ARE THE CORPS, AND FOR MERLYN AND AVALON, WE WILL OPPOSE YOU!" Again and again he repeated the mantra, drowning out the sound of the ukuleles in his mind.

He began to barrel through Arcade's computerised machinery, his enhanced perceptions tracing the electrical impulses. Arcade ran, making his way to his exit pod, when he found himself slamming into Captain Babylon's broad chest, bouncing off like a hummingbird against a brick wall. "You looking for me, sucka?"

"What, me worry?" Arcade pulled out a portable control unit, and began to punch the codes that would summon an army of robots to rescue him, before Captain Babylon snatched it from his hands, crushing it in his own. "Well ... sucka?"

Arcade stumbled to his feet, but a strong hand took him by the lapel of his jacket, lifting him up. "You're a blasphemy, Arcade. You don't belong here. You're too monstrous to live." He dragged Arcade back to his control room. His eyes scanned the keyboard, and located the communications unit. He activated it, and sent a transmission beam. "Captain Babylon," responded the artificial intelligence which inhabited the ship.

"Mastermind," said the Corpsman, "tap into this control room, I want the following overrides enacted. First, delete all log recordings. Second, purge Arcade's control and override codes. Third, reprogram all isolated units to apprehend Arcade as an enemy…" Then, with a final sneer at the sniveling wreck of a man before him, "disable the kill command."

"Understood," said Mastermind, and blinked out.

"You're not going to have me killed? I ... I don't understand," whimpered Arcade.

Captain Babylon stared down at him. "It will take you a long time to die, here," he said. "But you will be subjected to every other torment and humiliation you've enacted on another human being here. And ... you'll have nothing else worthwhile to entertain you."

Arcade stared at him in horror as Captain Babylon lifted off into the air, to re-embark the waiting shiftship. He looked up and down the hallway, trying to determine the best escape route to the food banks, at least for the short term. He could barricade himself there for a while, at least.

Then, he heard footsteps coming down the hall. Footsteps, and another sound.

Twang.  
Twang.  
Twang…

* * *

Arcade and Weapon X trademark and copyright Marvel Comics, Inc.

Captain Babylon, Captain Bad Costume, Captain Ethnic Stereotype, Captain Marvelman, Captain Politically Aware, and Captain Sycophant trademark and copyright John Freeman.

Captain Commissar trademark and copyright Nick Miller.

Additional dialog in the Captain Marvelman segment paraphrased from "The Yesterday Gambit" by Alan Moore.

Additional lyrics in the Captain Sycophant segment paraphrased from "Bye Bye Baby" by the Bay City Rollers.


End file.
